


In Memoria (Of Those Left Behind)

by Rythes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/M, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Burrow (Harry Potter), Weasley Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 00:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15763173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rythes/pseuds/Rythes
Summary: A window into the life of Ginny Weasley after the Second Wizarding War. The Final Battle was won, but what did it cost Ginny? Can she ever feel the same as before?





	In Memoria (Of Those Left Behind)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This started as an image - a freezing cold Burrow and a lonely Ginny. It ended up an angsty mess, so trigger warnings: (Mild) PTSD, Grief, (Mild) Symptoms of Depression, (Mild) Alcoholism.

Ginny Weasley awoke, freezing and blinded by her flaming-red locks which had somehow come to lie across her face during the previous night. She didn’t move. For a moment, she was still removed from the outside world. If she stayed like this, perhaps she may find herself claimed by Morpheus again. Perhaps, but she wasn’t hopeful.

Instead, she could lay in her bedroom in the Burrow - the family home - until boredom gave her cause to get up. She didn’t need to open her eyes to be able to visualise her bedroom perfectly. It was almost exactly the same as it always had been - it was suprisingly tidy. In a house full of older, male brothers, a younger Ginny hadn’t wanted dolls and dresses laying around, so she had developed a habit of cleaning up after herself. Her room remained the only room in the house that could be described as clean. These days, with everything as neatly packed away as it was, there was little need for change to her bedroom. She had considered gjving her toys away to a child who would use them, but hadn’t bothered to get around to it. For now, everything stayed where it was, herself included. The day was still young after all. The day was always young when one had nothing to do.

In others, she knew, any sort of blind - and vunerable - state would surely lead to a severe panic attack. Luna, and many other alumni of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry who had been unfortunate enough to live through the Second Wizarding War, had told her as much in their letters. Back in the days following the Final Battle, there had been plenty of those.

Ginny had kept them, and knew that they all sat, likely dusty by now, in the desk by her bedroom window. She was often consious of the existance of those letters, but their reading had been, if she was honest, too taxing. It was selfish to ignore them (Ron had made that clear, the git), but she didn’t care. Eventually, when people realised that Ginny had no intention of replying, the steady stream of letters had dried up. It still suprised her that it had taken as long as it had. People, like Luna, had had an extraordinary capacity for hope. Ginny had paid them all no mind, until they did the same for her. Maybe her reaction, or lack thereof, had caused a reality check in people like Luna Lovegood. Or maybe, they realised that she would rather be left alone.

Yes, alone! Her favourite way to be! Hah. She had almost forgotten, but now remembered that her family had left a few hours earlier. The Burrow, for now, would be silent. “What a rare opportunity...”, she murmered through her hair, which stuck to her mouth. Long hair was a pain, but a worthwhile one. Her hair had always been long, and cutting it would raise waaaay too many questions, she knew. There were enough questions as it was, and she felt compelled to answer at least half of them, usually. That was, usually, enough to satisfy. But today was not a usual day. Today, Ginny could pretend to eat without the barrage of questions and the constant noise, while her family visted the graves.

“No use putting it off, and no use wasting this time, Ginny”, she thought aloud. No use trying to sleep again either. She had slept her quota, any more would be lucky. Today was not a lucky day. Unusual, but not lucky.

The witch rolled out of bed, feet landing on the bedclothes that she must have kicked off in her sleep. “Merlin, it’s cold!”, she moaned at her reflection that had rolled out of bed with her. Mirror-Ginny only moaned back. No comfort for her there.

She instead gathered the bedclothes in her arms and draped it around her small, skinny frame. Tentivly, she moved quietly towards her bedroom door, and stuck her head out, gripping the frame. “...Hello? Helloooo?”.

Nothing. How blissful.

But cold! Bloody freezing! Harry used to joke about muggles and ‘Central Heating’ which seemed ingenius but was made reduntant by warming charms. Unfortunatly, without a wand, Ginny couldn’t actually *cast* much of a warming charm. A weak, wandless version maybe, but there were more efficient sources of heat in the house.

Her father still looked after her wand for her. They had taken it from her after the battle. They had called it a “preventetive measure” which was ‘“for her safety”. They hadn’t really understood that while she was a traumatised mess, she was not a suicidal mess. Her family really understood very little, in Ginny’s opinion. “Nope... not gonna off myself, I’m just... well actually, I’m just bloody cold”, she murmered, letting a dry laugh escape. Time to fix that, though.

She naturally gravitated towards a single cupboard in the kitchen. It was small, high up and out of the way. For a good, respectable, lowermiddle-class family like the Weasleys, it was the perfect place to keep liqour. It was not proudlyon show, it was rarely opened and it was high enough to keep the contents from young, curious Weasley children in the past.

In the beginning, Ginny had be worried. At the rate she had been drinking, coupled with her never leaving the burrow to buy more, would have meant that the cupboard would have run dry by the end of the first month after the Final Battle. Instead, Ginny had found herself with a secret partner-in-crime. Somebody had insured that the cupboard was always stocked, and always unlocked at night. Ginny had noticed that the stock was depleted twice as quickly then what she could achieve on her own. She had her suspisions as to whom was similarly disposed to reaching what could only be described as a level of black-out drunkedness. But by unspoken, unacknowledged agreement, she said nothing and asked no questions. And the cupboard remained stocked.

She reached up and grabbed the open bottle of firewhiskey while a pot of tea brewed on the range. With a hard yank, the cork came free. There was a soft pop, and she gave a half-smile, before diluting her tea by half. She moved to sit by an empty hearth, letting her duvet fall on the nearby armchair, and crouched with her fingers towards the dry firewood. The next step was focus, and great effort. With so little practice, and no wand, even a simple incendio was difficult: yet after a moment, a small fire sparked to life.

Ginny sat herself in the comfortable armchair, wrapping a hand around her mug of tea, and herself in the duvet once again. She truely enjoyed the solitude, the tempory break from the family life she used to love. She knew she should consider moving out, but she didn’t think her parents would allow that. It wouldn’t really change much anyway. She was alone either way.

The Weasley kitchen was the same as it alway had been. It was busy, and messy, and lived in. That had not changed. Molly had kept busy after the War, always cooking and cleaning and giving out orders and chores. She probably hadn’t noticed that everyone else was too tired to carry out those chores, and that Molly usually ended up doing the work that she delegated, herself. If it kept her happy, that was fine, Arthur had said. Ginny supposed that he was right. Everyone coped in different ways.

Now, the kitchen was a little gloomy in the pale morning light, without anyone running around in it (like a headless chicken!). But that matched Ginny’s mood, so that was ok, she mused. Funny how that worked: the house, cold and miserable and empty - Ginny much the same. Ironic. Or symbolic, or something.

Harry would have known, with his muggle, primary school education. Hermione too, but she had mostly absorbed herself back into the muggle world of late, so she had heard. Ginny missed Hermione sometimes. But as Arthur says, whatever kept her happy.

Hermione’s desicion had not kept Ron happy, that was clear. But she had troubles enough to concern herself with, never mind someone else’s. It was a cruel mindset, but the world was cruel. “But, but, but”. There was always a ‘but’ to anything- like the opposite of a silver lining. Something else Harry would have had a word for. What was the opposite of silver? The drink was definitealy getting to her.

Ginny moved to sit in the window seat towards the back of the house. She could see the delapedated Quidditch field from here. The sight often stirred emotions in her that she would rather keep buried. Gold-gilded memories of flight and soaring and swooping - and a spectre of a future that could have been hers. Her memories of flying were over-exaggerated to perfection now, so that when she viewed them in her mind’s eye, she was filled with hopeless longing. But she couldn’t (no matter if she tried - and she had), bring herself to fly. Like some metaphorical curse, this dillema reflected life: skilled enough to take flight, the opportunity to, right in front of her. But yet, she could not. She musn’t.

Flying was Harry’s thing.

No, Quidditch was out of the question. And what would she possibly want to do with her life bar that? So she became a stay-at-home recluse. Gone was the energetic younger sister, the fiery child who would often get her way.

Nobody blamed her, of course. The war had took it’s toll on everybody. Many died - others, like herself, might as well have.

“But today is for remembering those who passed on, not the ones who were left behind. So cheers, Fred. Five years seems no time at all. I’ll always remember you like you were here yesterday.”

She took her mug to her lips, and downed the warming mixture. She sat and gazed out of the window for a while, but not really seeing.

Then in a quiet voice, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, Ginny remembered the other brother she had lost.

“And cheers, Harry James Potter. A Weasley in all but name. You would have liked to know they buried you in the family cyrpt. You probably would have laughed, with your dark humour... Voldemort robbed you of your family, then robbed you from your second family. You probably met death happily, you selfish git. You finished off the only threat to your happiness when you ended You Know Who, but you just had to follow after him.”

She was silent for a moment, then she broke as she dropped to a whisper. “And you left me behind...”


End file.
